


Untethering

by CraftyDemonite



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dissociative Episodes, Gen, Hallucinations, general violence, implied PTSD, includes brief depictions of dismemberment and devouring other creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23261695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CraftyDemonite/pseuds/CraftyDemonite
Summary: Whenever he feels himself slipping – forgetting where he is, when he is, who he is – he reminds himself of these three things he knows to be true. AU
Relationships: Earl of Lemongrab & Earl of Lemongrab 2, Earl of Lemongrab & Finn the Human, Earl of Lemongrab & Princess Bubblegum
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	1. War Games

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> LG1 = Limoncello "Cello"  
> LG2 = Meringue
> 
> Please take note that this story takes place within an AU. Thank you.

They called them "Prancers."

Rather, the Queen of Vampires, Marceline, called them that once as a joke and the name just stuck. They looked as if a very large, very flamboyant feathered lizard decided to get up on two legs one day, though they did not walk or run like nearly every other bipedal creature. Instead, they bounced and skipped and hopped and it made them very hard to pin down.

Cello would know, as he just barely manages to clothesline one as it tries to leapfrog over him. He slams it into the ground, spinning on his heel to block another's bite with his sword. The metal gives a reverberating clang as its teeth connect and it falls limp with a garbled wail, blood bursting from its ear holes.

The prancers seemed to have appeared out of the blue, scampering around the Candy Kingdom's bulwarks until the Gumball Guardians noticed and drove them off. From time to time, a small group of prancers would come bounding into the perimeter of the kingdom, though they were skittish and fled when shouted at or mildly threatened. Princess Bubblegum had been annoyed by their presence and by how they were scaring her peeps, but had assumed that they were only odd pests to be shooed away if necessary.

At least until the first sugar plum tot went missing.

Normally, Cello would have declined getting involved in hunting them down as it was beneath him, but as more candies disappeared, the issue had quickly ratcheted up from that's-an-unfortunate-happenstance to an all-hands-on-deck situation. The prancers, it seemed, had a sweet tooth.

Tracking them down had been child's play, the prancers' odd gait leaving distinctive footprints and crushed vegetation. Princess Bubblegum, Queen Marceline, Finn and his dog brother, Earl Limoncello, Meringue, and a platoon of banana guards had followed the pests' tracks out of the borders of the Candy Kingdom, past the Grass Lands, and to the edge of a vast, unmapped forest bordering a valley of blue grass dotted with spires and plateaus of russet colored stone that almost looked as if some great, unknowable thing had stacked each boulder with a purpose. What they had found there was less a pack of renegade beasts, and more of an absolute infestation of the little monsters.

An infestation they were now tasked with cleaning up.

Cello catches movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to get a better look while backhanding another prancer in midair. Three of the banana guards holding the line had been incapacitated and a pair of prancers were making a break from the field that had purposefully enclosed with guards to try and keep the mob in one place.

He spits out something vulgar and not at all fitting for someone of his station in life. Following after the quickly retreating prancers wasn't an option for him. He couldn't leave the battlefield without express permission from mother princess because, while he was an effective combatant, he also doubled as bait. He may have been lemon, but he _was_ candy as well. Him and Meringue both.

He curls his thumb and forefinger into his mouth and whistles long and loud, the signal for immediate assistance. Also a fantastic way to alert more prancers to his presence and he carves his sword across the ground to his right, the pulsing sound digging a trench and throwing up rock and dust into the snouts of three more prancers. They fall back squealing and confused by the smokescreen of debris.

"Cello!"

The shout reaches him over the sounds of crumbling rock falling back to earth before Finn catapults himself through the wall of dust towards him. He catches the boy in one arm and lets the weight of the impact drag them back a bit so Finn doesn't get whiplash.

"Twenty-seven prancers down!" Finn hoots and looks very proud of himself as Cello drops him to the ground, "You can't beat that!"

"Two of them west past the defensive line!" He barks, because there was no time for this, and Finn just looks up at him imploringly instead of moving.

"But _Cello!"_

"Forty-three down!" Cello yells at him - no, it _isn't_ a competition, merely a friendly game to keep certain members focused on the task at hand - and he points sharply in the direction Finn really ought to be heading, "Stop them! Go! _Now!"_

Finn, looking disappointed but at least finally getting the idea, dashes off, unsheathing his sword to swipe at a few prancers following in his wake. Cello watches him go, needing a moment to catch his breath. They've been at this for days with no sign of stopping and it's becoming difficult to keep up the pace. He hopes that Finn landing against him didn't crack the glasses stored in his breast pocket for safe keeping. If he did break them, Cello might not be able to forgive the boy for a few days. A week at most.

He's relieved when he spies his brother once more, assured that Meringue is still in one piece, until he spots the four or five prancers pursuing him and rage and protectiveness roars to life in him with a fury. _How dare they!_

Meringue is almost imitating them, hopping and dodging and feinting and the prancers are snapping at his heels, so close, but never close enough. It only takes Cello a second to grasp what his brother is trying to do and he spins his sword in his hand and spreads his feet a little to root himself as though he were an immovable wall He lets out a breath as he settles into position.

Closer.

Closer.

_Now!_

Cello strikes forward, running through the prancers his brother had been baiting towards him with his blade while Meringue vaults off his outstretched arm. His brother lands on another prancer behind him with a bone-crunching crack before dashing off into the fray once more.

His sword catches in the corpses more firmly than he expected it to, though he manages to pry it loose with a few twists and a spurt of blood that soaks into his clothes. The air smells of iron and the edges of his vision blur in a way that has nothing to do with his far-sightedness. He bites the inside of his cheek, the pain focusing his thoughts on three things he knows to be true.

_One: He is Earl Limoncello Bubblegum._

He stumbles forward as a prancer lands on his back, sharp claws digging into his rind and teeth coming for his neck. It only manages to get a mouthful of feathers from his collar before he seizes it by the throat, ripping it from his back and responding in kind. His teeth catch a limb just above the joint and he bites down and twists his head until the bone snaps and the tendons tear loose. The thing is shrieking in agony in his grasp, going silent once he finally rends its arm from its body. It tastes hot and brackish and metallic, not pleasant at all, but he chomps and swallows it regardless.

_Two: He takes three sugars with his earl grey tea._

He drops the body to the ground, letting it writhe and twitch before falling still, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He's not particularly hungry, but he needs to replenish his energy in whatever way he can.

_Three: The Pluto 670 Technical Drafting Pencil is his tool of choice._

The remaining prancers in the vicinity recoil back, some chirping and bouncing on their heels in distress and others standing tall and cocking their heads to get a better look at him with their bulbous eyes. They weren't very intelligent creatures to begin with, only knowing so much as to meet their basic needs of eating, resting, and breeding, but even they could sense that something had gone terribly awry.

Their intended prey had revealed that he was, in fact, a predator that sat on a rung much higher up the food chain than themselves.

One prancer, all blue-gold and on the skinny side, gives a screech in alarm, flaring its ruff of feathers wide, and turns tail to spring away. More quickly follow suit, bounding and hurdling over boulders and the few scraggly bushes that dotted the landscape. Again Cello swears, sheathes his sword, and races after them. He had only meant to intimidate, not scare them off in all directions and make them even more difficult to keep in one place.

He's almost caught up with one of the slower ones when his footing suddenly becomes slick and wrenches his leg out from beneath him and he goes crashing to the ground, skidding to a stop on his side. Pain flares white and hot all across his right from the impact and Cello hisses and curls up slightly, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It's not long before the pain dulls to an uncomfortable throb, he was bioengineered to be resilient after all, but pushing himself up onto his elbows is unusually difficult. His strength isn't there and it made managing these limbs and all this weight far too big an ask for him.

He wants to go _home_ , back to his books and architecture projects and where there was hot water and quiet, companionable moments with his brother. Back to where he didn't have to run himself ragged fighting for hours with no reprieve and he didn't have to skip meals because there was too much to do and not enough time in the day and mother princess couldn't demand him to come up with strategy after strategy after strategy that never worked because they weren't fighting sentient beings that could actually plan ahead, but a bunch of dumb, wild animals that outnumbered them thirty to one.

A smaller prancer that must have been in its adolescence notices that he's down and gives a trill that sounds too much like a giggle. Cello tries to get his feet under him as it skips over, but his arms are trembling and a stab of pain shoots through his right shoulder when he puts too much weight on it and he falters. Claws uncurl as the prancer makes one final leap and jaws snap shut in front of his face, but oddly its feet never touch the ground. Instead, it hovers in midair for a moment, its wide eyes somehow growing wider in confusion, before being pulled back sharply.

"Ally oop!"

The prancer had been caught in the dog's grossly overextended limbs and he slingshots it across the valley, its screams of terror growing faded and distant until it lands in the canopy of the nearby forest with a crunch of leaves and breaking branches. The dog chuckles self-satisfied to himself, his body looping around spires and across the ground like a wet noodle. Something clicks in Cello's mind at the sight of him, and his shocked expression hardens into a glower.

"Chalk up another point for Jakey!" The dog crows, his tail set to wagging far and away from the rest of him.

"Oh, _please_ ," Cello growls, forcing himself back to his feet, even though his legs still felt a little wobbly, "You did that on _purpose!_ "

The dog turns towards him with a scowl, shrinking somewhat back to his normal state (or as normal as it got for some weird, stretchy dog-thing) and placing his hands on the rough equivalent of his hips. "What'choo talkin' about?" His whole body shifts and melds to stand closer to him in a way that would have been disturbing had Cello not been familiar with his abilities. "I just saved your ugly mug! You should be thanking me!"

 _"Saved me?!"_ Cello practically spits in incredulity, his hands curling into fists, "You _tripped_ me!"

 _Of course_ he must have! The ground was covered in thick grass with nary a puddle or patch of mud for him to have slipped on and to have nearly gotten himself maimed over unless the dog had tripped him up on purpose with his stupid, rubber body!

The dog narrows his eyes and stretches himself upwards until he's not only matched Cello's towering height, but is infuriatingly hovering a few inches above his eye line, forcing him to tilt his head up ever so slightly to match him glare for glare.

"You tryin' ta start somethin'?"

"Oh goodness, no," Cello says in a falsetto, pressing a hand to his chest as though offended by the suggestion, "I intend to _end it."_

"Bite me!"

 _"I wouldn't tempt me if I were you…"_ He snarls in warning, going so far as to bare his teeth a little.

In all their bickering, Cello fails to notice that the dog has looped part of himself around his ankles until he's suddenly yanked off his feet. This time his head bounces off a rock painfully and stars burst across his eyes. It takes a moment for his vision to stop swimming and there's a faint ringing in his ears, but Cello can still hear the dog laughing and proclaiming that he has two left feet. What had been irritation mixed with extreme dislike erupts into a cocktail of burning, furious hatred for this idiot dog who _dared_ humiliate him. Once he gets himself more upright, Cello rears back and throws the hardest, meanest left hook he can manage, aiming for whatever part of the orange body is closest. His fist connects with the dog's jaw and his head pings off and away like a slinky.

Satisfaction in revenge curls pleasingly in his belly. He had been wanting to do something like that for awhile, held back only by the very real possibility of Meringue's disapproval and Finn's disappointment. The dog _deserved_ it after all. If not for this, then for a few other things he had done in the past.

His victory is short-lived as part of the dog stabs outward like a lance, nailing his injured shoulder and stealing his breath away. Retaliation was inevitable, though Cello didn't expect the blow to transform into a vice of tough, rubbery skin curling around his shoulder and bicep. He grabs at it with his left hand, intent on tearing the dog from him only for it to get stuck and lost in the mass of flesh as well. He quickly slips into a fog of rage and pain, half-screaming curses and every other nasty remark he can think of over the dog's taunts about giving him a taste of his own medicine and flexing and straining his muscles as hard as he can to break free, but the snare is catching around his chest and stomach and squeezing and movement was getting difficult.

A sharp, piercing shriek that no prancer could make hits his ears and he jerks his head over to see Finn standing on a sizable rock and blowing into his flute as hard as possible and Meringue charging over to them in the distance, prancer blood dripping a line in the ground from his mace. The distraction makes Cello's strength falter and the dog takes this advantage to engulf him more completely, shoving him to the ground once more and grinding the side of his face into the dirt.

By the time the two younger brothers have reached them with demands of what was going on and why they were fighting, Cello finds himself quite immobilized. His legs are tangled in a net of orange limbs, though he's freed one foot enough to dig it into what flesh he can reach, and one arm is pinned to his side and the other is trapped against his chest and this is honestly the most compromising position he's ever been caught in.

"I'll tell ya what happened!" The dog proclaims, stretching out a small part of himself for his head to be level with Finn and pointing a thumb at Cello behind his back, "This guy's a complete nutso! A whack job!"

His temper flares once more, stoked by the insults and the steadily building panic at not being able to move freely, and Cello can't stop himself from giving the dog what he asked for. He sinks his teeth into the strange rubbery skin and fur until the dog yelps. They untangle and break away very quickly afterwards, Cello driving a heel into the soft body one last time, and they're left sitting and panting and furious with each other.

Meringue hovers about him like a nervous mother hen in the aftermath, rattling off questions pertaining to his well-being and giving light, fluttery touches to his hands, his arms, his face until Cello grows fed up and waves off his offers to help him to his feet. Finn is tending to his own brother even as the dog is nursing his aching jaw and griping to himself. Neither party is keen on engaging the other, even as a long shadow throws them into darkness and a delighted howl rings out.

The sun has started to set, turning the skyline a beautiful, radiant orange and signaling that Queen Marceline could finally come out to play, however briefly. Cello has only just stood up and begun dusting himself off in a huff, Meringue still fretting at his side, when she loop-de-loops in the air and races down towards them.

"Tag out!" She hollers almost infuriatingly cheerfully, clapping a hand on his injured shoulder as she whooshes past his head. He winces as another bolt of pain races down to the tips of his fingers, but she had no way of knowing he had been hurt. He watches her as she spins gracefully in midair, body morphing into something huge and inky and rimmed with claws, and falls onto a group of prancers with an echoing laugh.

He's being relieved from the field, _finally._ It's probably for the best as he doesn't want to be around anyone right now, _especially_ not his so-called allies. He needs time to cool his head and compose himself. Time he likely won't get because even back at camp he had responsibilities to attend to and orders to follow.

Finn and the dog have already recovered enough to chase after Queen Marceline and take care of what prancers they can before night falls. Cello turns on his heel to stalk in the opposite direction, only to be briefly chased down by his brother. Meringue clasps a hand about his wrist and Cello skids to a stop lest he pull him off his feet.

"What happened?"

What ire Cello had been able to tamp down floods back in a rush and makes his voice harsh and cruel. _"If he gets in my way one more time, I-!"_

"Stop, stop," Meringue instructs, raising his hands in a placating gesture, "Take a moment. Explain properly. What happened?"

Cello does so, fueled by anger and embarrassment and feeling very much not respected as an authority figure, but the more he talks, the less and less his words seem to make sense. Yes, he had fallen and, yes, the dog had been there, but the two matters aren't connected by anything other than Cello's own assumptions that the dog _could_ have tripped him with his strange abilities and strengthened only by the fact that they despised each other. There was also the point to be made that the dog _had_ stopped a prancer from taking his nose off and that had to count for something. The malice drains out of him like poison from a wound as he comes to terms with the fact that everything had happened quite quickly and confusingly and that fault could only be found in their words and actions afterwards. He trails off in his explanation, avoiding Meringue's eyes and mumbling something about a lack of focus in the recruits and how one doesn't speak to a commanding officer like that in a weak attempt to preserve his dignity and lay blame elsewhere before his voice dies out completely.

Meringue takes this all in without reprimanding him or suggesting what he ought to have done. In fact, he's been silent and only frowns a little once Cello has finished.

"Are you unharmed? Nothing broken?"

Physically, he's alright and he assures his brother as such. Though his shoulder is still a bit tender, the only thing truly wounded is his pride. Meringue appears relieved, but his eyes are still tight with concern.

"When you return to our tent, perhaps you should lie down? You're looking a bit peaked."

"I'm fine," Cello insists in a rush, making it sound like the lie that it was, "I have work to do. You know this."

The look Meringue gives him is reproachful, but patient as always. "If only for one evening, can you stuff your work? Leave it to mother princess for once since she's been off combat duty for the day."

Cello narrows his eyes at him, offended by the suggestion. It was fine if others saw him as cross or short-tempered, but the last thing he wanted to be known as was lazy.

It takes a moment, but his brother sighs and answers his own question with fondness in his voice. "Of course you can't."

Cello is appreciative of his brother's understanding, reluctant though it may be. One day soon, he hopes to have the words to explain that his efforts, exhaustive and stressful as they are, have always been intended for Meringue's benefit; ensuring that his brother could live happy and carefree in a way that Cello himself never could. But not today. Instead, he takes Meringue's hand in his own and presses the tips of his fingers into the palm, a reassurance and a promise in the gesture. He's happy when his brother squeezes back tightly, his fingers cool and slender, but just as strong as his own.

"I will be awaiting your return to camp and to me. Rest will come easier once I know you are safe."

Meringue's expression shifts into something determined, his blue eyes hardening like rock candy. Cello almost blanches under its intensity before finding his own resolve to do whatever it took to be worthy of such unwavering loyalty and unconditional love from the person he considered to be his other half. They both let go reluctantly, Meringue moving to unholster his weapon and Cello turning to head back to their campsite.

"One more thing, brother."

Cello pauses and looks back, cocking his head expectantly.

"Promise me you will go easier on them," Meringue gestures with his free hand towards Finn and Queen Marceline and the dog, "They are not used to war games like you are. They were not there for things like the Candy Rebellion."

His heart clenches and skips several beats at the mention of the Rebellion, but Cello pushes it from his mind. He snorts derisively and looks away, not because he's being asked too much, but because saying no to such a request from his brother is next to impossible. "I will try," he mumbles, hoping that it doesn't fully count as a promise since his temper likely won't let him keep it.

\-------------------

End of Chapter


	2. Under Lock and Key

Their base of operations had been thrown together in a rush and without much consideration for placement or thoroughfare. Tents were erected haphazardly and it sometimes made it impossible to walk in a straight line without hitting a roadblock. Campfires burned around the perimeter, driving away small animals and giving light to the quickly darkening sky, and there were scores of crates filled with weapons and provisions stacked and scattered about. The banana guards had never been good at organization, let alone maintaining a functioning encampment without near constant supervision.

Cello is sitting on a stack of boxes labeled with incomprehensible writing he's sure only the banana guards can make sense of, glaring at nothing and pushing around the venison pudding on his plate. He had gotten about two mouthfuls in before completely losing interest, his hunger evaporating only to be replaced by a ball of anxiety that sits in his belly like a rock. He knows he should eat, but forcing food down his throat just made him feel like throwing up.

_One: He is Earl Limoncello Bubblegum._

He casts his plate and fork aside, certain he can't stand a single bite more, and scrubs at his face in annoyance. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet, but how could there possibly be any calm with dozens of bananas scurrying about with orders to pass out food or equipment or to guard the perimeter of the camp or whatever other menial tasks Princess Bubblegum decided they could handle.

_Two: Meringue is his brother and, as the eldest, it's his duty to protect and take care of him. Even if too often it ended up being the other way around._

His brother, Finn, Queen Marceline, and that stupid, annoying dog (Meringue insisted that he call them "teammates") are sure to be back soon for dinner and rest. Then they will convene with mother princess in the main tent to talk through strategies and objectives and if any of the others _actually_ pay attention for once and _actually_ follow orders tomorrow, Cello swears he'll eat his left boot.

_Three: He left his dear pet camel, Cammy, in the care of the Candy Kingdom's stable hands and they had better be treating her well and remembering to brush her coat everyday._

"Uh, Earlness sir?"

Cello looks up to see a banana guard before him, two others peeking out from behind the canvas of a nearby tent like spooked pigeons. The expression on his face must have been vicious and bordering on intent to murder the closest warm body because the banana quakes pitifully in front of him. Some part of him deep down takes satisfaction in that. Sometimes he pretends that part of him, ancient and bloodthirsty and monstrous, doesn't exist.

"Uh, uh, uh," it stutters and trembles, forcing itself to speak, "Th-the princess wants t-t-to see you, Earlness s-sir."

There were usually only two reasons why mother princess would wish to speak to him: Either A) she wanted his input on a new strategy or invention or something of the like or, more likely, B) whether on purpose or by accident, he had gone and done or said something wrong and she was going to scold him for his callousness in not taking into account other people's feelings. Once, when Cello had been feeling particularly cheeky, he asked her why he _should_ care about what others felt or what they thought of him. She had sputtered and mumbled something about "bad manners" and "not good for the state" before dropping the matter entirely.

He grunts an acknowledgement and the banana does an odd half-bow, half-salute like it can't decide which is more correct and skitters away with the two others around the tent and out of sight. Cello runs a hand over his face one last time and rises to make a beeline to the princess' tent.

Or as much of a beeline he can manage. Again, bad organization, and he's forced to go around campfires and scoot past occupied tables. The banana guards know to clear a path for him and most stumble over themselves to do so. The remaining ones - the unlucky ones - he shoves out of the way as he moves past and towards the center of the camp.

Princess Bubblegum's tent was magenta and modest in size with only the kingdom's crest hanging above the entrance and a pair of stationed banana guards to give any indication of its importance. With annoyance still burning in his gut, Cello barges in without warning, catching the princess frowning and chewing her bottom lip a little as she looks over the maps and placement markers strewn about the table placed in the center of the tent. A small cot was set up to her right, though it sagged with various books, half-folded maps, and her jawbreaker guns and looked like it hadn't been used for its intended purpose in quite awhile. She looks up at him in surprise, her mouth parting slightly. The canvas flutters closed behind him.

"You called for me?"

"Limon! Yes!" Her hands hover uncertainly for a moment, eyes roving over the maps before seeming to notice the plates and bowls of partially eaten meals that had gone cold and crusty and the stacked mugs of drained coffee leaving brown rings on the papers and how it honestly looked a mess and not fitting at all for royalty, "I wanted to know how it's going out there. Please take a seat!"

He sits heavily across from her while she busies herself with clearing away as many dishes and strewn about wrappers as possible, shoving them onto one end of the already creakingly full cot. He chooses to ignore that even if it does make his brain itch.

"How's it looking?" Mother princess asks as soon as she finishes. She's still standing and hasn't made a move for her own chair. "Better or worse?"

"The same as yesterday," he tells her, "And the day before that. And the day before that. No strategy compels their movements and their numbers haven't dwindled in the slightest," his chair creaks as he leans back, crossing one leg over the other, "Take out one prancer and another replaces it."

She sighs and rubs a hand over her mouth in thought. "So, worse, huh?"

"Not worse and not better. The same," he tilts his head at her, narrowing his eyes, "Unless you meant for me to give a report on personnel and inventory? Because _those_ numbers have been getting worse."

Normally, it wouldn't have been expected of Cello to keep track of all the supplies and banana guards – certainly not when he was already an integral part of the front lines – but he had a mind for figures and calculations and an eidetic memory to boot. Mother princess had merely decided to put it to good use and placed that responsibility on his shoulders along with seemingly everything else.

She's not paying attention to him, tracing a finger across the map and to the squiggly circle that represented the seemingly endless forest just to the northwest. She taps at it thoughtfully. "If we could just figure out exactly where they were coming from-"

"The last reconnaissance team we sent to find the nest is missing in action," he reminds her pointedly, uncrossing his legs to lean forward and rest his elbows on the table, crinkling the paper. He laces his fingers under his chin. "And I would _strongly_ advise against sending any of our actually competent recruits on a suicide mission."

So easily he slips into speaking like a military officer and he hates it. Too much like the old days. Gritting his teeth, he forces back thoughts of dark times long since passed, times before the expansion of the lands under their jurisdiction.

"Speaking of which," she starts hesitantly and not quite looking him in the eyes and he knows what's coming and drops his hands to the table, "I heard you had a bit of a, let's say, _spirited discussion_ today…"

 _Here we go._ He really should have made a bet with himself over how fast banana guard gossip spread.

"He started it," he grumbles, even though that accusation has been put into question. He looks at his gloved hands and curls them into fists. "It's not my fault-"

"If I'm not there," she speaks over him, firm and corrective and making him feel very much like the small child he never was, "I'm really relying on you to keep them in line, you know? Make sure they don't do something stupid? Or dangerous? Or dangerously stupid?"

He knows and it's all the more humiliating hearing it from her.

"You're good at that kind of stuff, watching out for everyone. You were good at it back then, too," and her voice takes on a gentle, teasing tone, but his muscles are tensing, tensing, _tensing_ , because he dreads what she might say next and he hopes and wishes that it isn't-

"Weren't you, _General_ Limonce-?"

 _"Don't!"_ He all but roars, lips curling back from sharp teeth and spots dancing in front of his eyes. The maps crackle and tear under his fingers curling and digging into the wood of table. Anger is burning savagely like hot coals in his stomach and shooting fire into every limb. Mother princess jumps and backs away a few steps like she's frightened and her eyes go big and black. Underneath all the rage and hatred twisting his insides and the red haze clouding his mind, something in him is quailing in fear as well.

She _should_ be frightened of him. He's frightened of himself. Of what he might do. Of what he knows he _can_ do.

_One: He is Earl Limoncello Bubblegum._

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs and assuaging some of the fire burning him up from the inside. Fighting it never went well, so he let that fire wash over him and burn and smolder into warm ashes in his heart, not daring to stoke it with anything other than three things he knows to be true.

_Two: Princess Bonnibel Bubblegum is his mother and creator and he loves her and she loves him, regardless of the things they've said and the things they've done._

"Don't," he repeats, soft and deadly serious, "Never call me that again."

That name had belonged to him once, before he had been christened an Earl, but not anymore. It had been cast aside centuries ago, every document or medal that bore it smashed, torn to shreds, burned, and forgotten. If that name – so much like his own, but not his own – never graced the lips of another living being, it would be too soon.

When he opens his eyes again, his body has gone icy, though there was still something sizzling and crackling in his chest. He leaves those embers where they are, knowing that there was nothing in his heart they could reach and, even if they did, nothing they could consume without being smothered by everything he kept safe within it.

_Three: If it is something important, he will keep it in his head. If it is something essential, he will keep it in his heart._

Mother princess is looking at him like he's some dangerous animal she let in on accident (in a way, she had) and the silence between them fills the tent until it rings loudly in his ears.

"May I leave now?"

Her brow furrows and she is about to say something, but instead she drops her gaze and ducks her head. He takes it as assent all the same. He stands to leave, but as he's pushing back the canvas of the doorway, he catches sight of his brother and his teammates making their way into camp. They're battered and bruised and Meringue is examining a cut on his arm, but they look pleased with themselves. The dog says something that makes everyone laugh and Finn pushes at him playfully. The sight of them together makes Cello feel small and cold and like he doesn't belong.

"I was really hoping," the princess finally speaks up behind him, unusually timid, "That you would be taking this chance to get to know your friends better."

 _Friends_. The word doesn't feel right and like it's too big to fit anywhere inside of him. "Allies" and "teammates", those words are small and manageable and he knows where to place them so that they don't get out of hand. Finn had asked him once – insisted really – that he think of him as a "friend" and it filled his heart until it was fat and heavy and thudding almost painfully against his rib cage. He is certain that he doesn't have any more room inside lest he explode from trying to keep it all within him.

Worse still, he could leave it – this delicate, burdensome thing called a friend – lying somewhere where the blazing inferno of his anger could reach it, consume it, and leave a hollowed, burnt out husk in its wake.

Cello can't decide which option is more unacceptable.

\-----------------------

End of Chapter


	3. Displacement

The moon is bright and full in the skies above as Cello stares out across the valley at the forest that lay beyond. It was the kind of deep, dark forest that one had to make sure their last will and testament was up to date and that they had given their final farewells to their loved ones before entering. The trees were ashen and charcoal with crooked trunks and twisted branches and a scraggly canopy so deep green in color it was almost black. No one came back from such a forest, alive or dead.

Yet the prancers sprung out from between the trunks and over the bushes when light bathed the land and retreated back into the depths of the forest the moment the sun dipped low to touch the horizon. Perhaps there was something important in that observation, something that could help them in their endeavors to drive the prancers off once and for all, but having spent days upon days fighting with a lack of filling food or decent rest left Cello's thought processes clunking along at a much slower pace than normal.

He's dutifully taking his turn at keeping watch regardless, perched on one of the rocky plateaus surrounding their ramshackle camp with only a lantern and a few chirping crickets to keep him company. There hasn't been any movement for nearly an hour outside of a few scavengers skulking about to pick at the corpses.

There's also the figures, of course. Short and stocky and carrying swords or maybe spears? It's hard to tell from this distance. They're flickering about and glimmering softly as if armored or made of delicate fish scales.

He frowns. That isn't right.

He pushes up his glasses and kneads his eyes with the heels of his palms. They're sore and achy and blinking has been getting sticky. He convinces himself that he's just overworked and stressed and that's why he's been feeling out of sorts as of late. And also why everyone has been standoffish and giving him odd looks whenever they think he won't notice.

When he looks again, the figures are gone, but the trees are twisting without wind and the ground is shifting and undulating like it's alive. Like it's breathing.

His stomach rumbles unpleasantly.

Even if he knows it's not real, that he's only seeing things because he's worn out and hungry, watching the ground move is disorienting and making him nauseous. He closes his eyes and tries to brace himself against a single, clear thought.

_One: He is Earl Limonc-_

"Cello?"

He jumps a little, the voice breaking his concentration, and looks over. Finn is standing there, or at least the blurry blob he knows to be Finn (where are his glasses? Maybe he left them with Meringue…), holding two steaming mugs. A hazy, dream-liked forest Cello is fairly certain is an illusion is sprouting up behind the boy. Finn is here? Was he supposed to be?

"You should be asleep now," Cello tells him, even as he accepts the offered mug. That's correct. Finn _should_ be resting. Once the all clear had been sounded, their little group had all but collapsed into an exhausted pile to sleep. Cello was in no mood to be touched or crowded, yet it was still somehow difficult to extricate himself from the warm cluster of familiar bodies when he had been roused for lookout duty.

Glob, he's tired.

He takes a sip of the coffee as Finn scrambles up to settle on a branch – no, a red-brown rock – beside him. The brew is bitter and weak and doesn't do much for perking him up, but the warmth feels good in his hands. It feels real.

"This tastes pretty bad."

"Hey now, don't be mean!" Finn admonishes him, only to grimace after taking a gulp. Cello grins despite himself and despite how it feels like he's being pulled in six directions at once.

"I don't know how you guys can stand this stuff," the boy gripes, sticking his tongue out in distaste.

"It takes a refined palate," he says and Finn snorts, unconvinced. There's something on the edge of his vision – fish maybe? Swimming lazily through the air – but he ignores it. "You might prefer it with cream and sugar, but taking it black is better in times like these."

"Times like what?" Finn asks, curling up a little to fight back the chill in the air and slurping at his drink.

He's about to say "like the Rebellion", but the words catch and strangle in his throat and his heart drops into his stomach. He takes another gulp of coffee if only to cover up the garbled sound he just made. No point in getting into that now. Finn may have known battle and loss, but he knew nothing of _war_ , ruthless and merciless and terrifying. Cello prefers to keep it that way if only to spare him the horror.

Keeping watch. He's supposed to be keeping watch, even if it's hard to focus beyond the perfect and infallible memories of broken, battered bodies and broken, battered homes and the cries of fear and the unspeakable things that he _will do - would do - did do -_ _keeps doing_ only because mother princess had said it was _right._ That it was _for their own good._ That it would keep them _safe._

His grip on his mug loosens until it slips from his grasp and goes rattling down the cliff side, knocking off the handle and chipping the edges before smashing to pieces far below. His heart is hammering far too loud in his ears and he wishes it wouldn't because he feels like he's falling as well and he grabs at the cord – the branch – the rock Finn is sitting on to brace himself. The rolling valley below isn't a valley, but a snake, huge and striped and coiling about the camp like it was going to strangle it and he swears he can hear it hissing a cruel laugh. The stars aren't stars, but thousands of glittering eyes watching him, _judging him,_ and he can't get enough air into his lungs and his eyes are burning, but he can't look away.

_One: He is Limoncello…_

_Two:_

_Two: …_

He buries his face in his hands, rubbing at his forehead and trying to calm his racing mind. His glasses, which had been resting forgotten atop his head, slip free and bounce off his arm to clatter on the ground at his side. Something in his mind – his heart – his soul is cracking and splintering and it feels like everything _he was – he is – he will be_ will leak out until there's nothing left and if he can just _remember one single thing he knows to be true,_ maybe he can be saved. Maybe mother princess can put him back together.

"Finn," he says, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, "Ask me something. Anything."

The game is this: He just has to remember the answer he gives. If he can remember it, he won't get swallowed up by this terrifying, icy nothingness clawing at his guts.

"Uh, okay, um. Are… Are you alright?"

The question is so simple, so stupid, that he can't help but let out a harsh bark of laughter. When he pulls his hands away, he's sitting on the ledge of a blue-orange building in the Candy Kingdom.

He's standing on the beach of a vast, glistening ocean.

He's staring up (down?) at dripping stalagmites deep underground.

There's cotton candy trees and cold prison bars and hot furnaces belching fire and yellow desert and cramped rooms filled with plush, homey furniture and he's everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

"No, I am not alright."

The world is swirling around him and whenever he tries to focus on a single object – a pen, a teacup, a butterfly – it refuses to stay put or even remain as itself. He can't keep a hold of where he's been or where he is or perhaps what he is to become? Trying to do so is like grasping at water. There's a shout, a laugh, a whimper ringing in his ears and drowning out his thoughts and everything inside of him needs to _stop_ for just a second so he can concentrate-!

_One: He is… Something. What was it? It feels like it was so important, but he can't remember-_

"Here, I gotcha."

He jumps again, startled (Finn is here? Finn? Here?). The boy is picking something off the ground and wiping at it with the corner of his shirt. His vision is terrible, has been since the moment he awoke into this world, and Finn blurs even worse once he steps closer and reaches out towards him.

All his muscles tense and he halfway expects to be struck, though the thought doesn't stick, doesn't make sense. It had been a long time since the boy had done something intended to harm him outside of the occasional joke that made him feel foolish when he took the bait. It doesn't stop the panic blooming in his chest and he wants to push Finn away, but his limbs have locked up.

There's the sudden familiar weight of his glasses being pressed to the bridge of his nose and Finn's features come into sharp focus. He's frowning up at him in concentration and there's worry in his blue eyes. The boy steps back a little, hands still raised as if about to offer further assistance, and he tilts his head slightly.

"How's that, Cello? Better?"

The words feel as if they take a long time to reach him and even longer for his mind to parse out that it is a question.

"I-"

_One: He is Cello._

"Yes, better." His mouth feels dry and like it's full of cotton. Finn smiles at him, though it's reserved and hesitant and not the wide, joyful grin Cello is used to receiving.

"That's good," Finn says and gives him that look that everyone, _everyone_ has been giving him behind his back and it's full to brimming with confusion and concern, "You know, you haven't really been _you_ lately."

_Two: Finn is his friend._

Cello wants to say something - a reassurance, an apology, something comforting that Meringue would be able to say effortlessly – but when he opens his mouth, he can't get his voice past the lump in his throat.

He's never been good at things like this. Soft and gentle things.

Instead, he looks away, feeling hot and ashamed of letting someone see him in such a state. He is about to order the boy away and back to bed for some proper rest and to save what few shreds of dignity he has left before Finn flops down with his back against Cello's side, bundling himself up in a thick, scratchy blanket that he must have brought up with the coffee. He yawns and stretches and settles with a deep sigh and a murmured "Wake me up when it's my turn for watch, 'kay?" Although it's uncomfortable, Cello accepts his continued presence and his company.

_Three: He is going to be okay._

Slowly but surely, the world is returning to order and his head isn't spinning and his chest isn't filling up with so many desperate emotions that he doesn't know what to do with himself. He clasps his hands together to stop them from trembling and focuses his attention on Finn's weight pressing against him and on the thumping heartbeat that isn't his own and it grounds him in the here and now.

Cello takes a steadying breath, returning his gaze to the horizon, to the quickly solidifying earth and trees and to the stars and clings desperately to those three little things he knows to be true.

\-------------------

End of Chapter


	4. Here and Now

"Hey."

The voice is at the edge of his hearing, rippling through the dreamless void and stirring his consciousness ever so slightly. Whatever it is, whoever it is, can certainly wait and he slips back into-

"Hey!" There's two sharp taps to the middle of his forehead and he winces. "Wake up, ya big lug!"

With great effort, he cracks an eye open. The sky is a soft purple-pink, the color of dawn, and blotted out some by mother princess leaning over him. His glasses must have gone askew because he's seeing double; one princess in focus and the other blurry, and it's muddling his vision into a confusing mess. He starts to tell her off, to go away and let him rest because his limbs feel like they're made of lead and his head is throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but stops when he notices the reproachful look she's giving him.

He's insulted already and his temper flares, hot and angry. She's got nothing to be upset with him about because he hasn't even done anything yet! He had been asleep, minding his own business, and it was her fault for waking him. Was it because he was sleeping outside? Even if she didn't like it, he was a grown lemon and he had a right to-

Hold up.

Why was he out here and not inside where it was warmer and safer? What had he been doing again?

Eventually, he remembers, even if it felt like his mind was wading through molasses to do so.

Keeping watch. At night. And it's morning.

Whoops.

Okay, so _maybe_ she had a right to be upset with him, but clearly nothing had happened while he slumbered or else he would have been awoken by the screaming. It was _fine._

It doesn't stop the irritation from curling in his gut. He yawns and stretches his arms until his shoulders crack pleasantly, feeling a bit more awake and alert. He must have closed his eyes for just a little too long at some point and fallen asleep. Finn is still here, he notices, the boy's head pillowed in the space between his chest and his stomach, warm and half-asleep. Finn murmurs unhappily at being jostled, rolling over to press his face into Cello's chest in a stubborn attempt to return to dreaming. Cello can feel the heat rising in his face and he really wishes that Finn wouldn't do these things that were so honest and horribly endearing. He wishes even harder that Finn wouldn't do them where others could see.

Mother princess lectures him about responsibility while he dislodges Finn from his person and pushes himself upright. He's only half-listening to her as he rubs the sleep from his eyes and Finn is swaying a little where he sits, still tangled in his blanket and blinking into the rising sunlight. There's a moment of silence once mother princess ends her sermon and she's frowning at him like she expects him to be sorry.

He tells her something dismissive and not quite an apology, but still on the side of remorseful. Her shoulders relax a bit and her stern expression softens into something he can't quite identify. She sighs out that he's hopeless, though somehow it doesn't sting like it usually does, and steps close to adjust his glasses back into place for him before her hands move to cradle his jaw and she presses their foreheads together. He doesn't know what brought this on, this sudden overflowing affection that the princess is so insistent on demonstrating, but he takes her love and keeps it in his heart all the same.

When she pulls away, still holding his face, she tells him that both he and Finn look terrible and to come down and clean up for breakfast. He assures her that they will and breaks away first so she doesn't have to. Mother princess drops her hands and for a moment looks like she wants to say something else before thinking better of it and turning to carefully make her way back down the plateau. At least he knows where he got _that_ personality flaw from.

Finn sees this exchange, as embarrassing as that is, and his half-awake, sleep-addled brain must have made a strange assumption because he tugs on his sleeve and Cello looks down at him right when Finn is suddenly leaning up too fast and their foreheads crack together painfully. They recoil, hissing and clutching at their heads, Finn going so far as to fall back and roll up like a pill bug on the ground.

"What was _that_ for?" Cello grouses, eyes watering.

"I didn't mean to do it like that," the boy whimpers between his fingers, now very much awake.

He should be upset, but a laugh bubbles up from his chest instead. He's feeling very strange this morning. Lighter almost. "What did you _think_ you were doing?"

"I don't know!" Finn throws his arms wide in exasperation, tossing some of his blanket off, "Saying 'hello'? 'Good morning'? I don't get the stuff you do, man!"

Cello grins toothily at his frustration before ushering the boy onto his feet because the prancers were sure to return and breakfast was waiting. He reminds himself to explain it to Finn properly later.

\------------------

Cello takes his time with changing into a fresh uniform, feeling a lot better in something not wrinkled and stiffened with dirt and dried blood and sweat, and wanting nothing more than some privacy after being crowded and pushed around all day yesterday. Meringue wordlessly understood his need for time and space - because he always understood and was always very good to him - and went ahead without him to the main tent. Although, not before Cello stopped him and told him that he loved him and Meringue had gotten a very funny look on his face and asked him if he was feeling alright. All he could say was that he was fine, he just thought he ought to say it out loud for once and while he felt like he could.

He's drying his face with a thin towel after splashing it with water to ease the slight headache just behind his temples and placing his glasses back where they belong when he catches his reflection in the mirror above the basin and is taken aback. His jacket is only half-buttoned up and there is an abrasion flecked with scabbed over blood tracing across his right clavicle, peeking out from under his tank top, and his eyes are a little red and smokey. However, the wound is minor and healing and _of course_ he would look like he could use a week's worth of naps all in one go after the string of days he's been having. No, what truly disturbed him was how _old_ he looked, certainly older than he remembers himself ever looking.

Maybe it escaped his notice, the decades and centuries taking their toll and leaving him with calloused and scarred hands and faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth that only deepened whenever he glared or frowned and a once vibrant rind that had dulled to a golden yellow and broad shoulders strengthened from carrying the weight of his responsibilities. He wonders how mother princess held onto her youth, glowed with it really, but perhaps his propensity for fretting and worrying merely aged him faster. Regardless, he quickly decides that it's fitting; that every scar and wrinkle was a trophy hard won with perseverance in the face of struggle and hardship and that it made him look handsome and distinguished. He was far from settling into anything that could be considered his twilight years, but that didn't change the fact that he was now an older gentleman shaped by experience and living in a time of relative peace, not freshly made and caught in the middle of strife and suffering and far too eager to please those whom he thought were superior.

Finn had said before that he hadn't been _himself_ lately, though he thinks such a notion is silly. There were parts of him Finn and the others can never see, will never see. Parts he didn't like to acknowledge or buried as deep, deep down as he could manage. There were parts that were booming loud and confident, timid and easily frightened, sad and weary and wanting to cry, vicious and hateful and wanting to tear the world to pieces like the monster he was – is – tries desperately not to be and fails, and all these disparate parts coalesce into the being known only as Earl Limoncello Bubblegum.

And this he knows to be true.

\------------------

As always, Cello barges in past the canvas with no sense of propriety or decorum. His teammates, sitting slouched and cross-legged around the low, round table placed in the middle of the space, all stop talking at once and look over at his less than subtle entrance. The dog in particular scowls at him like he just ruined the deliverance of a good punch line. He shrinks a little under their unified gaze at first, feeling cornered, before remembering himself and forcing his shoulders to relax and raising his chin in defiance. He was supposed to be here, was he not? The awkward moment is broken by Finn's sudden and very vocal complaints that he took _forever_ and that he's _hungry_. Cello blinks and realizes they had been waiting for him. It's a very strange thought that he can't quite grasp.

He places himself between Meringue and Queen Marceline as Peppermint Butler appears from seemingly nowhere with a tray so full of bowls it was a wonder he didn't topple over. Breakfast is set before them and utensils are passed between each other and the tense atmosphere evaporates blessedly quickly.

Meringue gives him a concerned look and reaches up to touch his temple and when Cello presses a hand to his head he receives a dull throb for his troubles. Definitely a bruise. He glances over at Finn, who is shoveling porridge into his mouth with gusto, and there's a red, painful looking lump on his forehead. The dog seems to have noticed too, staring daggers at him and pointing to his own eyes and then to him as if to say "I'm watching you." Cello snorts and rolls his eyes and buries his nose into his bowl to eat instead. The meal is bland and uninteresting and designed to fill as many stomachs as possible rather than being something to enjoy. He devours his portion all the same, feeling ravenous and like he finally has an appetite again.

He listens quietly to his teammates talk amongst themselves as he chews and following their conversation was like trying to navigate the strands of a cobweb. They kept breaking off into conversational groups of two or three before just as effortlessly coming back together again in consensus. Joining in was intimidating, even if mother princess had made a point before that he really should try and get to know everyone better. He's used to being a commanding authority figure whose orders were not to be ignored or questioned. Lending his voice to a group on equal footing with each other was alien to him.

Queen Marceline is speaking of the different shades of red and how, yes, maroon and vermilion _are_ very unique and not at all like each other and, though it takes some effort, he speaks up softly to agree with her. She lightly punches his arm in what he can only assume is supposed to be a friendly gesture and says "See? This guy knows what I'm talking about!"

The ice is broken and his tongue feels loosened enough to speak his thoughts and his voice slowly strengthens into something confident, but not quite harsh, and joins the gentle, soothing melody of carefree chatter and camaraderie. He's ignoring the dog's side eye whenever he and Finn speak to each other and especially the glares he's given whenever he says something frank and pointed that somehow makes Finn laugh like he told a joke. He finds that Queen Marceline has some fascinating insights into sound theory and is kind enough to whole-heartedly agree to giving the pitch and frequency of his sound sword a once over. By the time they're scraping the bottom of their bowls, Cello honestly can't remember what he had been so apprehensive about.

But somewhere between mother princess clapping her hands and trying to bring them to order and Marceline making a teasing comment that makes the princess flush and become flustered in irritation-

Between Finn and the dog joking and laughing and completely in their own world-

Between Meringue's attempts to placate and be the voice of reason like he always is, Cello's thoughts grow distant and fuzzy about the edges.

He's pulled back to the present by the princess' demands for them to stop fooling around and by the dog stretching out in that bizarre way he could to collect their dirty dishes and by Finn fighting back a smile and pretending to be serious and by his brother touching his hand softly, asking if he's alright and if he's feeling well.

He assures him that he is fine.

_One: He is Earl Limoncello Bubblegum._

_Two: This state of having others to be around – where he is not just tolerated, but welcomed- this state of childish conversation and sharing food and stupid, awful jokes is quickly becoming his new "normal."_

_Three: He doesn't mind as much as he thought he would._

\-------------------

Fin.


End file.
